


Provocative Discourse: Indulge in Moderation

by ruethereal



Series: Of Silly Magic Tricks, Unicorns, and Single Fatherhood [5]
Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, Gen, Humor, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-07
Updated: 2010-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-11 13:39:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruethereal/pseuds/ruethereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the same universe as <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/107911">What Two Pence Are Really Worth</a>: If killing things mends a broken heart, alcohol fixes awkward heart-to-hearts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Provocative Discourse: Indulge in Moderation

“What’s this I hear of Mordred declaring someone from the café as his new mother?”

Some people think I’m a sadist.  Sometimes, I have to agree.  This is one of those times, making Arthur squirm in his seat.  I’m polite enough, of course, to not look him directly in the face.  I’m content with watching him alternate between tensing and shuddering.  It helps that Arthur’s always been my favorite victim.

“Very pretty, according to him.”

Oh, all right, I suppose that was rather much.  His elbow actually jumped off the table with that one.

“Uther invited me as well, you know, to the initiation dinner.  He seems to think I should be there to gauge the situation—”

“I’ve no idea what you’re blibbering on about, Morgana.”

_Finally_.  I almost thought he was going to take this one lying down.  Well, it’s more like I almost thought he learned to not encourage me.  But this is far more entertaining, him putting up a fight.

“Don’t be silly, of course you do.”

I flip a page to feign interest.  Ah, you see, Arthur and I are deciding together—good Lord—on which secondary school Mordred should attend.  It’s a year early, but I’m expecting to go overseas after he turns ten—sweet Jesus, the lecture Arthur gave me for that—and we agreed it ought to be handled well in advance.  We argue enough living an hour apart, imagine being on different continents and the cost of long-distance phone calls.

He snatches the sheet from me with a flourish (he must’ve learned that from Uther).

“If you’re worried my feelings will get hurt—”

“Oh, believe me,” he bites, “if or when I _ever_ decide to date again _your feelings_ will factor very little in my decision.”

Now _he_ is pretending to read over the papers, but he’s definitely gone pale, even in the harsh afternoon sunlight streaking through the blinds of the patio door and through the dining room of our flat—or, rather, his and Mordred’s flat.  This is a good time to ask something obnoxious like ‘Oh, so my feelings count for some, yeah?’ but there are more important things to address.

“Well then, that’s convenient,” I say, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice.  “You and Guinevere have my blessing.”

Oh dear, he’s ripped that one.  I’m surprised it took so long, but I expect it won’t be the last either, if I keep this up.

“You can have Uther watch Mordred for a night and the four of us can go on a double-date.  I hate to admit it, but I’m rather interested in this new Merlin friend of yours.  He’s gorgeous, and it’d be nice to shag a man who doesn’t wear a three-piece suit on a daily basis for once.  You know, I won’t have to worry about wrinkling the silk or whatever.”

I mustn’t, I mustn’t, I—damn, I can’t resist.  Arthur’s face?  Priceless: eyebrows so high on his forehead they’re completely hidden behind his ridiculously long fringe, all the whites of his eyes visible they’re so wide, red splotches across his cheeks and nose, mouth hanging open so his damn adorable crooked teeth are on display for the world—well, just me, but if the world could see his face… ah, I’m evil, not sadistic.  I smile mildly.

“Do you object?”

He snaps his jaw shut audibly (goodness, Arthur, you’ll further damage your teeth doing that) then looks over my shoulder, I’m guessing at the clock on the range.  Oh, no, we’re not _nearly_ done yet.  It’s only been twenty minutes and I left the office early specially for this.

“What do I care if you date Merlin?” he mutters, stealing away more sheets from my side of the table and making a big act of bending over them.

“Not too close to home, then?” I ask blithely—though I’m glaring at the top of his blonde head.

“Not at all,” he grits out.  “I’ve only known the kid a month.”

How precious.

“‘The kid,’ really, Arthur?  He seems very _adult_ to me.  Though I wouldn’t complain if he’s in need of some _learning_.  I’m more than willing to _teach_ him, and I’m sure he’d be more than willing—”

“Christ, Morgana!”

_That_’s another school I won’t know anything about.  Well, if Arthur was the one (pretending) to check it out, maybe it wasn’t the best of choices, anyway.

“Mordred says Merlin has a flatmate who’s also rather delectable.  Not Mordred’s adjective, mind you, but he’s turned out to be a good judge of men considering his affections for Merlin and Leon.”

“Yeah, Will suits you perfectly,” he mutters.

We both know I’m talking about the Lancelot bloke, but I’ll let that one slide.

“So, tell me about Guinevere.”

His sigh is so despairing and annoyed and frustrated, it’s almost pitiable.  Almost.

“Morgana, there’s nothing to tell about.”

No, Arthur, there’s nothing to tell about _her_.  I’m sure there’s much to tell about—well, as much fun as I’m having with this whole farce, I don’t want to jinx anything.  Though, _they_ are so incredibly made for each other I doubt anything I do or say could stop them from ending up together.  On that note, I’m just trying to see if anything I do or say could, you know, speed things up a bit.

“No need to be shy, darling.”

His answering snort is much more characteristic of him: childish and lacking class.  Oh, _all right_, Arthur can be classy, but snorting onto his son’s future is without doubt an act devoid of class.

“‘Darling,’ really, Morgana?  That’s new.”

The prat.

“Well, I imagine no one’s called you by a term of endearment in quite some time.  Just trying to ease the sting of loneliness is all.”

His glare is nothing short of venomous.  I steal back several of the papers and pamphlets, push my glasses up my nose, clear my throat.

“While I appreciate the sentiment,” he growls, making it obvious he’s not appreciative at all, “I am _not_ lonely.”

“Yes, of course,” I allow him.  “After all, you have Mordred, the sweetheart.”

“Exac—”

“And Merlin.”

“—cuse me?”

Whatever color had steadily returned to his face is gone once again.

“If it weren’t for Gwen, I’d say Merlin could just as well be Mordred’s new mother.”

Oh, sweet silence.  Arthur is: a) aghast; b) mortified; c) defensive; d) gobsmacked; e) all of the above?

“I mean, you three spend more time together than you do apart.”

More silence.  Bad choice, Arthur, dear.

“Not to mention he gives the both of you presents and walks home with the both of you and takes care of the both of you at the café.  _And_ he finally convinced you to let him take our son to the zoo, just the two of them.”

Still nothing?  Tut, tut.  Oh, Arthur.

“He’s very sweet, Merlin, isn’t he?”

“You—”

Here it comes.

“Hm?”

“You’re mental.”

Well, that was anticlimactic.

“What makes you say that?  I’ve merely stated the facts.”

“My personal business stopped being _your_ business when you insisted on separating and even then you’ve been making my life a living hell—and what about Mordred’s?—hiding behind the safety of your desk and throwing the two of us about at your convenience and now you’re trying to invade my life _again_ going on and on about Gwen when I’ve no interest in her and going on and on about Merlin like I—I dunno—like I _fancy him_ or something when really he’s just a _good guy_ and we’re _friends _but _we_, you and me, Morgana, we are not friends, you can’t talk to me like this.”

He gets up then and makes his way into the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards noisily and slamming things unnecessarily.

“What—ah—what are you doing?”

Perhaps—yes, all right, definitely too far.

“Putting the kettle on,” he grunts.  “They’ll be back soon, and it’s cold out today.”

I don’t know what cruel god compels me to, but I’m smiling, and standing, and joining him in the kitchen, taking him by the upper arm.  I feel him twitch, but he doesn’t protest, just faces me for a moment before returning to the task of filling the kettle.

“Hey.  I’m sorry.”

He snorts in answer, but it’ll have to do.  So I let go and open one of the cupboards myself to take out two glasses and the tumbler of cognac—it’s difficult, but I resist smiling at the fact that he’s kept all my drinking things where I’d left them.  I pour out a couple fingers for us both, then nudge one glass toward him across the counter.

It’s comical and slow-motion, but he turns to me once more, eyes narrowed and mouth tight.  Then, _then_, he sighs through his nose and nods.  Just as he raises his glass, I offer mine.  He gives a single shout of laughter before clinking them together obligatorily.

“Cheers.”

I hum my agreement (ladies don’t say ‘cheers’).  Then,

“And, Arthur.”

Perpetually pouting lips already resting on the rim of the glass, he raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“I just want you to be happy.”

His smirk is an excruciating, erotic display to watch, and I almost want to take back what I’ve just said, embarrassing and _honest_ as it was.  Almost.


End file.
